


Catching Up with Old Cuts

by samansucks



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: F/M, Implied or Off-stage Domestic Violence, M/M, Multi, Murder, Open Relationships, moral weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samansucks/pseuds/samansucks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarice Starling is a vigilante with a penchant for shooting criminals in the head and a serial killer boyfriend. Will Graham is too intuitive for his own damn good and too bitter to leave things be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catching Up with Old Cuts

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This draws from all of the canons (at my whim), but Clarice and Dr. Lecter are mostly as they are in the books and Will is a combination of his tv self and book self. The timeline is closer to the books, so it could be considered somewhat AU for the tv series since all events would happen about thirty years earlier. Visually, I like to imagine Clarice as Julianne Moore and Will and Dr. Lecter as Hugh Dancy and Mads Mikkelsen for the purposes of this particular fic, but that's really up to the reader.

The last day of his mother’s life started out incongruously well. 

"Don't trust anyone who says they love you," Hunter Thomas Coyle's mother had told him and his younger sister, Crystal, that far-off day when he was eleven years old. "That's how they get to you. That's how they get you to stay." 

If there had been a tangible point which could be marked to track the day’s decline, it would have been placed precisely at that piece of advice.

The three of them had been in the midst of a game of Uno--a rare, joyful event in their household. The warning had seemingly come out of nowhere, but his eleven-year-old self had no way of knowing what thoughts were going through his mother’s mind. She’d been drinking a little while they played, but the message had been conveyed in tones of terrifying sobriety. 

His father hadn't returned from work yet, but he was due some time that evening. His job as a bricklayer meant that he kept unusual hours and was often out-of-state in Florida or Alabama for days at a time. Hunter had liked those times best.

Sometimes, if a job was taking an especially long time, he played around with the idea that perhaps his father wasn't coming home at all this time. Maybe, he had mused earlier on that particular day, he'd gotten too close to the business end of a cement mixer and was already hardening into a slab of concrete. 

He'd liked that mental image. As a child, his imagination had smoothed out the edges of what was feasible and he’d contemplated his father as a grey square in an Atlanta sidewalk. He liked to imagine people unwittingly walking over his father’s great ugly face, as hard and dead as the concrete, as the years passed by. 

He saved that tableau for later; those little stories were always comforting when his father came home. And he always came home in the end.

Twenty years later, his father still wouldn’t stop coming home.

 

***  
"I know of no other incarnation of the Christ who offers forgiveness through application of a swift bullet to the head." Hannibal Lecter commented without looking up from his sketch for even a moment. He’d been practicing at surrealism lately, and his current work was the body of a man with a lamb’s head crucified on the top of a great, rolling hill. Mourners gathered round, and Clarice decided judiciously not to look too closely at the sketch. She didn’t want to know what position she’d find her own image in this time around; he liked to play around with his placement of her in his work. 

She rolled her eyes and checked that she had a reasonable supply of ammunition in the fine-but-functional leather work pouch Hannibal had brought home to her for just such a purpose, purchased days before she'd decided to tell him of her intention to get back into the field. 

In a manner of speaking. 

"That's because you haven't seen enough movies. Can you lay off the Christ imagery for now? Dammit, I know you've figured something out that you're not telling me." 

Supplies confirmed to be in good order, Clarice Starling resumed pacing the floor of their shared Atlanta flat restlessly. A dearth of new information meant that she probably would not be doing any work that night, but she was dressed in her usual work clothes. She managed to look both elegant and practical in a soft heather grey top, chosen for maximum range of movement, loose black slacks, and a matte black pair of very comfortable oxfords. Her hair was up in a silk scarf and the beauty spot on her cheek was disguised with makeup, but she looked unmistakably herself, indisputably beautiful, and undeniably deadly. 

Hannibal laughed softly to himself.

"I should have anticipated that a stay in the south would revive that accent. My dear, you know the terms perfectly well." This wasn't their old game, but it reflected many facets of the original. Quid pro quo was the language of love in the Lecter-Starling household as often as not. 

"Don't suppose you could give me a freebie this once? I've told you everything I've figured out so far."

"Have I ever been known to give out information for free?"

Clarice smiled a slow, soft smile.

"On occasion." She went to him then, and leaned contentedly against the thin arm of the handsome cherry wood chair that had come as a set with his secretary. She found herself in the drawing very quickly; she was at the front of the mourners, prostrate at the base of the hill and tearing at her hair in grief. It was really very well-done for such a small likeness. 

"There are those who would say that I am getting soft, Clarice. I want you think about our dear friend David," the Tattler, ever the leader in ridiculous serial killer nicknames, had dubbed him the David of Death after his estimated height, which was somewhat diminutive, and the average height of his three victims, which was decidedly not, "I want you to think about what he feels when he strikes down these giants among men.” He continued to add details to his crowd. 

"Rage, most likely. He's bludgeoning them with a hammer, that's definitely a rage-motivated mode of attack."

"Rage is the most glaringly obvious motivator for our little friend's attacks, yes, but is it the only one? Recall what you told me about the locations in which the bodies were found." He took her by the hand and led her to the small, comfortable cream leather chaise he had taken to using as his morning reading spot. They sat together, and Clarice mentally combed over the details of the crimes. Since she did not have access to the case files, she had available only what she had been able to glean from the information that had been made public and a few scraps of information gathered in one of what she privately liked to think of as her reconnaissance missions. 

"This would be worlds easier if I could find a way to access the case file."

"If that becomes necessary, you will find a way. First, however, discover all you can without the aid of that particular crutch." He paused, smiling in that way he often smiled when he was terribly amused by whatever was going on in that head of his. "I normally find that an inexcusably sloppy metaphor, the crutch, but it's especially seemly in this case. You must do a bit of hobbling for the moment, but one may still reach their goal at a hobble." 

 

"Yes, well, I’m not certain I’m wearing the right shoes to be taking this on one hop at a time. Curtis Tully was found in the alley where he'd parked his motorcycle shortly after his death, Ralph Isaacs in the yard of the automotive repair lot he ran with his son, and Robbie Denton in the front seat of his truck." It struck her that this case wasn't terribly challenging. If Behavioral Sciences ended up being called in, she would seriously question their allocation of resources. "He's not bothering to hide his victims. He's likely just...leaving them where they fall.”

“What does that suggest to you, Clarice?”

He _definitely_ knew something that she didn’t. She let the scenario play out in her head to the best of her ability. Something occurred to her. 

“You think he fears them? He’s creeping up on them and beating them to death with a hammer before they have a chance to even see him. A lot of killers want their victims to see them, but not this one.” She didn’t feel the need to point out, as she once had, that he probably already knew that. “And if it were just rage, he’d likely want the victim he’s perceiving as deserving of punishment to know that they’re being punished.”

“ _Very_ good. And how would David behave around someone he fears, do you think? Would he track their every move, learn about their lives, take them somewhere meaningful?”

“No, he’d just--want them dead. He’d probably want it done as fast as possible.” Another thought. “Tully and Denton weren’t necessarily in their own territory when they were killed, but _Ralph Isaacs_ was.” She bit her lip.

“Tell me.”

“I’m just wondering if the police have confiscated the records from his garage. It’d be a hell of a lot easier to get them from there than to break into a police building.”

“You might be surprised, Clarice, how easy it is to get into anywhere you wish. A dangerous flaw in any number of otherwise-competent law enforcement officers is that they expect those who are out of place to look as though they know that they do not belong there. A genial air and the right outfit will get you into almost anywhere you please.” 

“I’ll be sure to draw on your advice if it comes to that, but for now I’m going to keep my fingers crossed that the records are still where they belong.” 

 

***

 

Clarice flipped through the flimsy folder she'd liberated from Isaacs and Isaacs Auto Repair the previous night; she'd been lucky, and hadn't needed to sneak into the police station at all. While she'd been pleased with her luck, she also spared a moment to feel aggrieved at the slackness of the Atlanta police department's investigation. 

The Isaacs' were not, it seemed, terribly detailed in their bookkeeping. The customer reports were little half-sheets of paper stuffed into manila folders in a greasy old file cabinet right out there in the garage, next to the cars and tools. There were spots of grease, in fact, on a good number of the papers in the folder itself.

Most of the customers for the week she was interested in were repeats, which she felt safe discarding after scrutinizing them only briefly. She was starting to feel an edge of discouragement--her lead, after all, was really a very tentative one--when she finally came across a form toward the bottom fourth or so of the sheets that listed the customer as a first timer. Apparently they gave new customers a coupon for a free oil change with their next visit, and its receipt was stapled to the paper.

Thomas Coyle, she noted. Since she now knew that any new customers would have the same stapled receipt, she flipped through the remaining sheets and found the only other one with the same attachment. It was filled out with the name Sara Greenwich.

Thomas Coyle and Sara Greenwich. They were worth following up on--it wasn't like she had any other leads. 

***

Thomas Coyle liked to treat himself to dinner out after work on Fridays. He loosened his tie the moment he hit the steps outside the bank, and popped the top button of his shirt open. Business dress had never quite stopped feeling like it was trying to slowly strangle the life out of him as he went about his day.

Tony from security had recommended the burgers at a little pub down the street, so that was exactly where he headed. Tony didn’t mess around when it came to burgers. 

The pub was a cheery little red brick place, which provided a lovely contrast to the slate grey sterility of its neighbors in a largely business part of town. A sign hanging above the door declared that the pub was called OSCAR’S in bold green lettering. Thomas liked it on sight.

A bell rang brightly as he entered, and he chose a booth toward the back and examined the menu. The bacon cheeseburger caught his eye immediately, and his stomach rumbled in anticipation.

“Would you like to order now, or do you need some time?” 

“Yes, I think I--” Thomas looked up and his voice died in his throat. 

The world fell away around him, and he was eleven again

 

Crystal huddled at his side on the floor between their twin beds, startlingly warm when contrasted with the coldness that had filled up the space inside his chest.

“I think we should help Mama.” She whispered urgently into his ear.

“--FOR _SIXTEEN HOURS_ , YOU DUMB BITCH, AND YOU CAN’T EVEN--” there was a sickening thud against the wall. Crystal trembled at his side, and then tensed. He gripped her upper arm, hoping to reassure.

“It’ll be fine, Crys.”

They always came out of these times all right. Mama wore a bit more makeup for the next week, but their father was usually gone for work again within two or three days and the three of them went back to normal. 

That night, however, Crystal shook off his hand and made a break for the door before he could stop her.

“I’m _helping Mama_ and _you should too_!” 

He sat there, arms still curled around the space his sister had vacated. There would never be a moment in his life when he’d feel more cowardly. He eventually regained control of his limbs, but it wasn’t until he heard Crystal’s shriek. 

He jumped to his feet and finally, finally entered their little cavern of a sitting room. His father was nowhere to be seen, which was bizarre in and of itself, but Crystal and Mama were. 

He grabbed up Crystal who, at six, was alarmingly small and light, and fled the house with her in his arms, angling her skinny body so that her visibly dislocated left arm would not be unnecessarily jostled, unsure where he was even going. He regretted leaving Mama behind, but they couldn’t do anything for her now and he was _not_ waiting around for his father to return.

He may not have been able to help Mama, but he’d do all he could to save Crystal. 

The problem was that no matter where they ran, their father always seemed to find them.

***

Clarice exhaled harshly through her nose and lowered her gun. Her eyes swept over the silent alley where she’d found herself. Thomas Coyle lay lifeless in a slowly-spreading puddle of his own blood, hammer by his side. It’d been a clean shot; his eyes hadn’t even registered surprise before he went down. 

Her first instinct was to seek out Coyle’s intended victim, but the man had bolted immediately when he heard the gunshot. She could probably find him pretty easily, if she wanted. He was both extremely large and extremely hirsute, like all of Coyle’s victims, and she knew for a fact that he worked as a waiter at the pub down the next road.

There was nothing more to be done. Coyle wouldn’t kill again, and if the large man had called the police then Clarice couldn’t risk being there for much longer. With a final sweep of the scene and a decisive nod, Clarice turned on her heel and strode away from the scene as calmly as possible.

Clarice returned home to a dark, empty house. Even Mariana, their evening staff, appeared to have left for the night although it wasn’t terribly late. Clarice sent a grateful thought to Hannibal, wherever he had gotten off to. He knew that she preferred some time alone in the wake of life spent. The man’s name ran circuits around the inside of her head like it was training for a marathon. _HunterThomasCoyle_ , that had been his full name. He’d been a prominent employee at the bank where he worked, but she could tell he’d started out life as blue collar as she had. He had probably dropped the Hunter from his name in a bid to be taken seriously.

She made a stop in their vast, shadowed kitchen to pour a measure of whiskey into a crystal tumbler before shutting herself into the laundry room and leaning against the dryer in the far corner. It rumbled away quietly, heedlessly performing its own duties. As she rested there, she found the note laid at the center of its lid. 

 

_'Dear Clarice,_

_By the time you read this, you will have added one more notch to your counting rod. How many do you count now, hmm?_

_There is no real need to answer that question aloud, of course. I keep count as closely as you; moreover, I treat that number with the reverence it deserves._

_Does it still sting as much as the first, former Agent Starling? What will you do, when that pain finally fails to make an appearance? It is clear to me that you fear the day that that particular thorn will dislodge itself, fear that it will make a monster of you. Have you never thought that it may be just what is required to silence your ceaselessly riotous lambs?_

_You smile down graciously on your dying converts. We may have our fundamental disagreements on this point, but I increasingly find myself believing that your face may be the last image of goodness they see before they are put at the mercy of the malicious god who shaped them and then sought to punish them for their angles._

_You seek reassurances of righteousness retained, but such comforts would ring false wrung from my pen. Instead, I offer you only what I see when you stand before me. A mirror should serve just as well, but I have found the image often comes back to the beholder unrealistically distorted._

_You are ever a warrior, Clarice, as surely as any whose names have been set to the stars. The next time the opportunity presents itself, I would like you to examine Orion closely. When you see yourself set into that familiar pattern, you will be a step closer to knowing your own worth. You are the spiritual progeny of every figure in legend who has ever swung a sword at the root of the plight in their own tale. Free from the restraints of your once-cherished love, the FBI, your sword shines all the more brightly. If ever a creature born of human flesh was more suited to hand down judgment, I have yet to come across its likeness._

_Hannibal'_

She fell asleep against the dryer, clutching the letter. The tears that dried on her cheeks did not follow her into her dreams, and the silence of her sleep was unbroken but for the steady rhythm of the dryer. 

***

Will Graham found himself frozen in place. The darkness in the living room of his little shack just off the bank of Lake Seminole was broken only by the Georgia local news, buzzing quietly on the little analog television set in the corner. 

He usually made it a point to avoid watching too much of the news; his own experience with the media had left with him with a profound, if somewhat unfair, distaste for everyone in the profession. After a long day out on the dock, however, he'd scarcely noticed when a Seinfeld rerun flickered over into the ten o'clock news. 

He'd been in a light doze when the face of Hunter Thomas Coyle, shot dead behind a pub near his workplace, blinked onto his screen. It was soon pushed into a box to the left side of the screen as his sister's grieving countenance filled the right. 

“My brother was a gentle, kind man who was only polite to everyone he ever met.” Her brother had been all she had left of her family, she told them, rural southern twang thick on her tongue. Their mother was dead, and their father in prison for her murder, she related to the reporter with her tv-blonde hair and semi-permanent sympathetic expression that read as mockery to Will. Hunter Thomas Coyle had more or less raised his sister single-handedly. Will could recognize, distantly, that his disbelief at the reporter’s reactions was most likely his own distaste being reflected back at him; after all, who wouldn’t be moved by this tiny sliver of a woman’s grief?

He wondered if she realized that her brother perfectly fit the profile for the David of Death. 

(Will knew quite a lot about the case despite the hatred he claimed to hold for the news. He usually had a fairly good excuse for his knowledge, though; the radio at the fish market where he sold his daily catch was forever tuned to the local station.)

The realization that this wasn't the first one hit him like a bowling ball to the stomach. A mere two weeks before, an Alabama man had been killed with a clean shot to the head in his office. A post-mortem search of his things for evidence pointing to his killer had turned up, instead, evidence that he was himself responsible for the violation and deaths of four underage prostitutes. Their own murders had barely made the news at all before their killer had found himself at the end of another's gun. 

The police apparently hadn't made the connection just yet, despite the similarity in the method of killing itself--they would soon. Someone was killing these murderers, and he was beginning to feel himself sucked into it against his own will, beginning to see the faintest outline of this mysterious vigilante figure's design. 

"Oh, you're a guilty one." He whispered to the shadowed figure beginning to take shape in his mind as Crystal Lee Coyle cried on his television screen. 

 

*** 

 

Dusk was setting in rapidly on a humid summer night in Atlanta. A few local children kicked a soccer ball against a pharmacy that had closed shop for the day, raising a cloud of dust that scratched at Will’s throat as he hurried past, hands shoved deep into his pockets. His destination was a neat but fairly nondescript townhouse located some distance beyond the pharmacy and its children, but its front had been transformed into a verdant scape abloom with oranges and reds. 

He wondered absently if one of them had taken up gardening, or if they risked hiring out a lawn service. 

The security on the house was minimal; it made sense that its inhabitants wouldn’t want to alert the police should some opportunistic criminal decide that their home was an ideal target. Getting inside was a simple matter of popping two standard locks on the front door, and then he was in the main hall.

He ran his hand over spotless wooden surfaces, noting that the decorator had an obvious fondness for glossy, deep-red woods. Everything in the place seemed to be made of a handsome cherry oak. 

The color made him sick to his stomach.

***

 

The familiar snick of a gun being cocked rang loudly in the otherwise-silent room. Will jerked his hands back from where he’d been investigating the keys of an extremely beautiful harpsichord.

"Hi there. I'm in no mood for bullshit, so you'll wanna take a seat right now." A beautiful auburn-haired woman, resplendent in a navy blue evening gown with a subtly beaded bodice, trained her handgun steadily on Will. She nodded at a fine desk chair to the left of the cabinet he'd been sifting through.

He did as she commanded, wondering if she instinctively reached for her gun in every situation. Probably--it was the ingrained response of one who had given too many years of their life to the bureau's jump-out squads and raids. 

"You're Starling." He said, stalling for time as much as confirming what he already knew. 

She looked him over, taking in the scars on his face, and he saw the moment recognition reached her eyes very clearly.

"Ah, Will," came a pleasant, cultured voice from behind her. "You'll pardon the terrible lapse in our hospitality, I'm sure." He held up a coil of rope, looking convincingly rueful, "but I'm afraid that you've been _very_ rude, and you know how I feel about rudeness. One normally waits to be invited inside."

Christ, how had he ever read anything but DANGER in that voice? And those eyes--he wasn’t religious, but if the devil existed in any form he would have eyes like Hannibal Lecter. 

As Lecter expertly looped the rope around him, he stared defiantly down the barrel of Clarice Starling's gun.

"That man you killed last night, Coyle."

She startled, but quickly regained her composure. "Yes?"

"Did you know he suffered a psychotic break after his father killed his mother?"

"I hadn't been aware of that, no." Her brow furrowed. “Is that why you’re here? If you’re about to tell me I should regret killing him, then you should know I’m way ahead of you. I saved a life yesterday, though, and I like to think that I may have saved more than one.”

Will didn’t know if he’d been expecting Dr. Lecter to come to the defense of his lady love, through actions or words, but he only continued to check Will’s bonds. If anything, he seemed to be smiling to himself a bit. 

What could it be like to have a romantic relationship with this man who seemed to revel in his partner’s turmoil as much as the average person would her happiness? Did her happiness cause a similar reaction, or was it the plight that attracted him? 

His bonds secured, his captors shared a look and left the room side-by-side, leaving him on his own. 

He cast around for a rough edge, for anything he could use to make an escape. He doubted Lecter would leave him easy access to any such tools, but even the most brilliant minds occasionally missed a detail or two. 

It might be best to bide his time. It was already clear to him that Clarice Starling did not relish the taking of life in the way an outsider might expect of Hannibal Lecter’s companion. 

An opportunity was sure to present itself at some point. There were no windowless rooms here, and it didn’t seem likely that he was at risk of immurement in some secret wine cellar. 

He wondered again why he’d come here at all. He certainly held no lingering loyalties to the FBI. 

His captors returned arm-in-arm and he ceased his search. It wouldn’t do him any good if he found a possible tool and got caught looking at it too hard.

“Mr. Graham, it looks like you’ll be our guest for a few days.” To Starling’s credit, she did look somewhat uncomfortable with the scene playing out in her home. However uncomfortable she may have looked, though, was completely overridden by the conviction clear in her voice. She wouldn’t be releasing him.

“I’ve no wish to see you dead, Will.” That terrifying smile made another appearance. “After all, we used to have so much _fun_.” 

 

***

 

“So. How is _Abigail_ , hmm?” Lecter, reluctant to give up his space to their unwilling guest, had occupied the chaise at the edge of Will’s peripheral vision and seemed to be thumbing through an academic journal in a language Will did not recognize from the distance. 

“Dead. Lost her battle with anorexia after years in and out of clinics. Not that you need to feel _responsible_ or anything.” He was absolutely sure that Lecter had already known about Abigail, but there was no reason for Will to resist rubbing his nose in it.

_Bit like a disobedient dog_ , he thought hysterically, and had to clamp down hard on a yelp of laughter that threatened to escape. 

“That’s very unfortunate. She showed such promise.” He set aside his journal in order to more fully give Will his attention. “And how about Molly and little Willy?”

“I wouldn’t know. Don’t act like you don’t know exactly why that is.”

“Well, you never did reply to my letter. Terrible lapse in manners, Will.” 

Will had tossed the mauve envelope into the garbage as soon as he'd realized what he held. The paper had been fine-grained and softly scented, obviously extortionately expensive, and the address printed on the front painfully elegant.

Is there anything more laughable than a serial murderer who considers himself an expert on etiquette and taste?

This time, he let the laugh escape as it wished. 

It was funny, after all, wasn’t it? Funny how after years of trying for a peaceful life, after finally _finding_ it, he’d willingly and knowingly thrown himself back into the pit.

Funny, that’s what it was. 

***

"Do you think I lack moral fortitude, Mr. Graham?" Starling studied him from the same chaise in the corner that Lecter had occupied the previous night. Lecter himself had chosen precisely the same spot and position as before. He could see Starling at the edge of his vision when he turned his head as far as his bonds allowed, but doing so put some strain on his neck. He turned to study her as best he could. 

Will watched her face closely, weighing the hard control he saw there against all he'd heard of her from the news and from mutual acquaintances. He thought, then, about the monster he knew Hannibal Lecter to be.

He thought about Abigail as well.

"For skipping out on the FBI? No. You're not the only one here who's taken a turn as the bureau's sacrificial lamb." Lecter's mouth quirked in some private amusement. _He does love his little amusements_. 

Starling, apparently having anticipated his reaction, turned to him for a moment.

"Not a word." Her words did nothing to disguise the genuine fondness in her voice. What unnatural tic, what bizarre irregularity was it that could allow her to look at this monster with softness in her eyes and speak to him with affection in her voice?

If that quality could be isolated in a human being, he was sure it would also be found in the make-up of his own personality; after all, hadn’t he felt honest affection for Hannibal Lecter at one time? Clarice Starling had never had the disadvantage of an attractive veil hung over his true nature. 

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"As for the rest..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing in Lecter's direction as well as his limited range of movement would allow. Lecter looked perfectly composed on the chaise next to his companion, she with her modified .45 resting gently against her thigh and he with his sketch pad and charcoals, entirely unfazed by the man roped tightly to one of their fine, cherry oak drawing room chairs. Starling didn't seem any more perturbed by the situation than he did. “Don’t you ever feel like you have a moral obligation to...” 

She didn’t reply. 

WIll knew, then. She hadn't felt guilty over her relationship with Dr. Lecter in a long while; it was her discomfort over her lack of guilt he was seeing now, reflected in the set of her eyebrows. He imagined global games of hide-and-seek that went on for months, now separating to pursue their separate interests, now reuniting again and being so very glad of it. 

His recognition must have been as easy to read on his face to Dr. Lecter as newsprint. 

"It's good to see you've lost none of your perceptiveness, Will. Clarice, do not feel that you must lie in order to spare my feelings." It was, after all, her astounding frankness that had drawn him in at the beginning. "I'm not surprised that you found us. I am only curious about why you bothered. I was rather under the impression that you had freed yourself from that rank, false pretense of morality the FBI espouses." He smiled, revealing small, white teeth. Will had thought of that smile as attractive, once. “In fact...”

In a display of courtesy that rang as hollow to Will as any of his actions, Lecter rose from the chaise with a ‘by-all-means’ gesture and left the room, leaving him alone with Clarice. 

“My dogs,” he said abruptly. “I have six of them.”

He suddenly got caught up in a mental image of Rojo and Watson scratching at his door, whining pitifully when he didn’t answer them as he usually did. They were the neediest, clingiest dogs he’d ever had. What would they do on their own? What would _he_ do without them?

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I mean, they’re my only family and I can’t _feed them_ when--”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it, your dogs will be fine.”

He was silent for a moment, but then he found himself laughing as a thought occurred to him.

“I’m not sure this is what Dr. Lecter had in mind when he left us alone to talk.”

Starling was suddenly laughing along with him.

“I dunno, he might have. Sometimes I swear that man reads minds. No one should know as much as he does about another person.” A pause. “Although I’ve heard you’re not bad on that front yourself. Apparently I’m cursed to forever be an open book whether I want to be or not.”

He ignored the compliment. He thought it was a compliment; she sounded as though she meant it as one. 

“I always used to feel like he’d taken some sort of surgical saw to my head and was peering inside, back before--” he went to make a vague sweeping motion with his hand to imply ‘before being outed as a cannibalistic killer and losing his practice and the respect of his colleagues and my friendship and affection’, but was reminded forcefully of his bound state.

Her laughter turned choked and breathless.

“That’s...definitely apt.” 

As quickly as a blink of an eye and a brush of hair out of her face, she turned suddenly deadly serious.

“While we’re on the subject of household matters...you may hear someone besides the two of us here. Her name is Mariana. She works here part-time while attending Georgia State, and I’ve grown pretty fond of her.” she approached him, and knelt down to meet his eyes straight-on, hands on his arm rests. “I must ask that you don’t call for her. This is our private space. She doesn’t come into this part of the house as part of her job, and it’ll only end up with her dead. I’d be pretty upset to lose Mariana.” 

Well, that answered his earlier thoughts about lawn services. Apparently they _would_ risk hiring household help. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the interview process. A spark of recognition in the applicant’s eye, and suddenly they had a harpy at their throat? A shriek at seeing their potential employers and they found themselves with a gun to their head? 

Although it really, really wasn’t very funny at all, Will found himself lost in hysterical laughter again. He’d probably be doing a lot of that while he was a guest in the Lecter-Starling household. It was, after all, an ideal coping mechanism.

***

 

Clarice settled onto the sofa with a bowl of popcorn. She shot an assessing glance at Will, and pushed him by the shoulder into a more upright position.

“I’d untie you, but I really don’t want to see Hannibal dead or incarcerated.”

She was certainly a friendly captor, that much could be said.

“Then you’d better not untie me, I suppose,” he assented with a sigh. “He’d most likely find himself dead pretty fast.”

“Or you would.” He knew that she didn’t necessarily mean by Lecter’s hand. Her smile would have cut like a razor, he suspected, if he could have reached out and touched it. “D’you like comedies? I’ve got Dogma. I’ve been meaning to show it to Hannibal when he’s in the right mood. Blasphemy for the sake of blasphemy amuses him.”

“I always suspected it might. Dogma is fine. I only regret that I can’t reach for popcorn without your assistance.”

He was quickly coming to a genuine fondness for Clarice Starling. She showed no remorse in doing what she must to keep her and hers safe, but she also didn’t seem to see any reason for that to stop her from being friendly. Perhaps she was more well-matched to the doctor than he had previously suspected.

“I’m not about to let you go without, but you’ve gotta let me know when you want some or I might change my mind. Don’t be shy.”

 

Jay and Silent Bob were mid-assault on hockey stick-wielding anti-choice demon teenage boys when Lecter appeared, silent as a shadow, at Clarice’s side. His face was turned to the screen, and he eyed Jay and Silent Bob dubiously. 

“You choose to consume such charming media, Clarice.” His lip curled, and Will thought suddenly, _I’d forgotten what a snotty prick he can be_. “It’s lovely to see that you’re making friends, though, I must say. Will.” He nodded at Will warmly. Will ignored him. 

“Stop being a snot and join us.” She invitingly patted the sofa next to her--between herself and Will. He only just stopped himself from shooting her an irritated look; he’d nearly forgotten, for a moment, that he hadn’t actually chosen to be in her company. He really wasn’t in a position to protest, tied up as he was. “This movie was blacklisted by the Catholic church for blasphemy, you know,” 

“Well, then. By all means.”

All other matters aside, Will knew that he wouldn’t be asking for any more popcorn. 

 

***

 

“Do you know,” Will confided, “that he once kept from me that I had encephalitis? Claimed my symptoms were psychological. I was so sure I was losing my mind.”

“He sometimes lets whimsy get the best of him.” Clarice said, sounding every bit as though he had told her that Hannibal Lecter occasionally left dishes piled in the sink rather than that he had kept crucial medical information from a patient. Clearly she’d made her peace with the terrible things Dr. Lecter was capable of. 

“He gutted me with a linoleum knife.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less. Nice to see that people do occasionally survive him, keeps him from getting too full of himself.” 

“He set a deranged killer on my ex-wife and her son. And on me, later.” 

Clarice finally looked indignant on his behalf.

“Well, that sounds like a bit of a dick move. I’ve never known him to go after children. What’d you do to piss him off that bad?”

“Ah...refused to share personal information, I believe.” 

“He always sees things like that as a challenge. Has to be the smartest guy in the room,” she explained fondly. “It’s one of his biggest weaknesses. I’m surprised that you didn’t shoot his ass for a stunt like that, but I suppose incarceration makes that a bit difficult.”

“Oh, I definitely thought about it. He ever tell you anything about Abigail?”

“He told me the three of you were a bit of a family for a while.” Now she looked genuinely curious. With Clarice Starling had come the realization that Lecter _did_ possess the capacity for emotional attachment to other human beings. It was fairly killing him that he couldn’t figure out whether or not he may have had any sort of genuine feeling about Abigail and himself. He’d certainly never hesitated to manipulate them, or to put them in harm’s way. Will had long since acknowledged to himself that which he had chosen not to speak aloud; that he had once believed that he might feel love for Hannibal Lecter, and that that belief had been dashed very shortly after. Admitting that to himself had once hurt nearly as much as the linoleum knife.

“D’you think...” He started, not sure how to put his thoughts into words at all.

“It’s hard to say. I can no more explain how his mind works now than I could ten years ago.” 

 

***

 

Clarice wasn't noisy during sex; she never had been. When Hannibal had his head between her legs, as he did now, her pleasure was communicated in a series of short, staccato exhalations. Gasps and sighs stood in place of moans. 

She twined her fingers into the silky black of his hair and guided his tongue rhythmically against her. She'd discovered early on that that was what he liked best--for her to control the movement. He liked to feel the rhythm that her hips preferred to take against his mouth, to learn how she pressed her clit roughly up against his tongue one moment, then pushed up so that his mouth slid down along her to her entrance the next.

He had once told her that there was no smell lovelier to his keen senses than that of the sweat at the juncture of her thigh when she was aroused. Now, as she sighed and came and pulled away from his mouth, wincing at how sensitive she felt against the open air and the suddenly-rough texture of his tongue, he lay his head against her left thigh and inhaled her scent slowly.

"You desire him," Hannibal said quietly, matter-of-factly, peering up at her with his head cocked. There was no jealousy in his voice; he knew very well to whom her heart belonged.

She smiled weakly, still a bit short of breath.

"I'd entertained...thoughts. Exchanges, scenarios." She ran her fingers through his soft, damp hair. "Are you telling me you haven't?"

“Hmmm.” He replied, taking his time in giving her her answer. “Will Graham once desired _me_. He never said it in so many words, but it was very clear to me what he wanted regardless. I, too, have entertained thoughts.” 

It was Clarice’s turn to hmm. 

***

Clarice had put on another movie for him out of a reluctance to let him sit in boredom and possibly, as Will now realized, out of a desire for privacy. She was much too good to force a captive audience to listen as she and her monster sought out pleasure in one another, but it took only one sharp gasp during a quiet moment in the film for Will to catch on. He had always been, after all, very perceptive.

Dr. Lecter, he knew, would be fully cognizant of that fact.

There was at least one thing Will understood better now; Clarice Starling was _magnificent_. She was beautiful and elegant when she came in from her morning jog in black warm-ups, sweat glistening on her forehead and face flushed from exertion. She was powerful and deadly when she changed into a lovely emerald evening gown with a plunging back and a slit up the thigh that exposed the length of her well-muscled leg. 

She had a sharp wit and a kind heart, and she wouldn’t put up with too much of Lecter’s shit without telling him exactly what she thought. The confused desire mingled inextricably with loathing that he felt still for Hannibal Lecter was tempered by Clarice’s presence; here was a woman who knew exactly how Lecter should be handled, who _enjoyed_ the handling. 

***

Will didn’t bother to look up when soft footsteps alerted him to Lecter’s approach.

“That was a bit vulgar of you, doctor.”

“Sexual acts are not vulgar.” He stood erect a few steps before WIll when he finally gave into the temptation to look. “In fact, there is much of art in sex, although the quality varies as greatly as art itself. And please, dispense with the formalities. We’ve been friends long enough for that, I think.”

“I’ll pass. And I’m still pretty sure that allowing guests to overhear their hosts _fucking_ qualifies as vulgar.”

“I believe, Will, that I detect a note of jealousy in your voice. Most becoming, jealousy. Irrational, as well.”

“Clarice is wonderful, but--”

 

“Oh, Will. This dishonesty with yourself is doing you no good. As your therapist, I would recommend that you confront the reality of your own desires.”

Lecter knew. He knew that, as much as Will wanted Clarice Starling, he wanted Hannibal Lecter just as much. If he could see that much, surely he could also see Will’s shame over it. A kinder person would leave it alone.

“Since you see so much, there’s really no need for me to say anything at all.” He met Lecter’s strange, unsettling eyes. “I wouldn’t want to be redundant.”

He refused to say another word, and Lecter eventually collected a magazine from the secretary and settled himself down in his usual seat to read.

***

“Doctor? Clarice? Mariana let us--oh, hello.”

Will found himself suddenly face-to-face with a large black man and a large white woman, both as muscled as body-builders. 

“I’ve seen you before,” said the man slowly, as though he couldn’t quite place where they’d met.

Of course, the one time they had met had been years earlier, and Will himself many scars fewer.

“Been a while, Barney.”

“Will Graham.” He turned to his companion, aggrieved. “This is why you shouldn’t make friends with the violent criminals. You never know what you’ll find in the drawing room.”

“We’re not planning on killing him, so you probably shouldn’t tell him any personal information.”

Clarice appeared at the doorway, changed out of her tracking clothes and into a simple, elegant royal blue shift.

The woman sighed.

“It’s a good thing I left Judy and Anderson at home,” she said, blatantly ignoring Clarice’s advice.

“Sorry, we should have rescheduled, but we’re not likely to be around much longer.”

“I really don’t think any of this is my fault,” Will protested, although there was no accusation in Clarice’s voice. Clarice waved off his protest.

“You’re coming to dinner, too. We’ll figure out some way to allow you the safe use of at least one hand.”

“You could just leave my hands untied and, I dunno, aim a gun at me throughout.”

“Puts me off my dinner and straight into work mode, honestly. It’ll have to be one hand, sorry. I know this is a lot of indignity to go through, but at least you’ll keep your life and be very well-fed as well.” 

“I’ll also have some very pleasant company in the meantime,” Will reassured, eyes fixed on Clarice. She favored him with a warm half-smile.

The woman barked out a laugh, and Will felt himself flush. That had been some pretty blatant flirting with Hannibal Lecter’s mate he’d been engaging in, and with an audience. 

“You’re definitely a brave dude, Will Graham.” Her voice was low and rough, and very pleasant. “I’m Margot. I’d shake your hand, but it looks a bit out of order. Sorry to ignore your advice, Clarice, but he already knows Barney’s name and...”

“It’s fine.” She met Will’s eyes. “I’m coming to trust his discretion, anyway.” 

 

***

Dinner was a much finer affair than the deli meat sandwiches Will had grown accustomed to. He picked up a ciabatta from the basket at the center of the table and examined the olive oil glistening on its flat surface. This, at least, was unlikely to contain any meat.

While Will was fairly sure that Clarice would not let Dr. Lecter get away with putting any human on the menu, he couldn’t help but flash back to meals he’d had at Lecter’s house years previous. The grilled and garnished swordfish also appeared to be actual fish--he was a bit of an expert on that front, at least--but the idea of putting it into his mouth was a bit off-putting regardless. 

“You know,” he said slowly, eyes never moving from the bread basket, “I’ve only just remembered, but you used to make a lot of really terrible cannibalism puns before you were caught.”

“Will, please. That is hardly appropriate conversation for dinner.” Lecter reprimanded sternly, tiny wedge of some fine cheese that Will had no hope of identifying pausing in its ascent toward his mouth. He sounded like some fucked-up caricature of a strict father. 

“Wait, no, I want to hear about this.” Clarice broke in, suddenly grinning like crazy. “Mr. Low-humor-is-beneath-me? Mr. Wit-in-a-segue? Are we talking about the same person?”

“Really, Clarice.” He said indignantly. “...in retrospect, I may have engaged in some private amusements that could have fallen under the pun classification. But in all fairness, I never expected anyone to catch on.”

“I think puns can be plenty funny.” Margot asserted. “It’s not all nacho cheese and knock knock jokes.”

“Thank you, Margot.” He turned his attention fully to Margot, apparently hoping to divert the conversation. “And how is little Anderson these days?”

Margot looked delighted for the chance to discuss her child.

“Oh, he’s fantastic! He’s finally learning to talk properly, and he’s been jabberin’ away non-stop. Gonna be a chatty one, that boy.”

Clarice and Barney, however, as the present parties who had more experience with Dr. Lecter’s sense of humor, were more interested in hearing about his shameful, pun-riddled past.

“Give me all the dirt, I plan on referencing it as frequently as possible.”

“If he carves out my sweetbreads in retribution, you should know that I will curse your name in my final moments.” Will replied wryly. 

“Just get as far away as possible after, that’s what I did.” Barney said. “Not that it did much good in the end--here I am at his dinner table.”

“We didn’t force you to come,” Clarice pointed out. 

Barney gave her an apologetic smile that very clearly conveyed _let’s see you reject a dinner invitation from one of the most notorious killers of our time_. 

“He once told Jack Crawford that he’d love to have his wife for dinner.” Will told them hastily in hopes that it would serve as a distraction. “I mean, it sounded fairly innocuous at the time, but I’ve got a very good memory, and looking back on it...I only remembered it at all because of how amused with himself he seemed.” 

“Mr. Crawford never told me that.” 

It was that point that finally earned Will Dr. Lecter’s silent, still head-tilt look--the one that looked just like a promise of slow, painful death. He decided that maybe he wouldn’t be telling them any more tales after all.

“Will. If you cannot be a polite guest at our table, I am afraid we may have to excuse you from dinner without dessert. I wouldn’t want you to miss out on that; I make a very fine mont blanc if you’ll pardon my saying so.” 

Clarice looked disappointed, but Will kept his mouth shut about Jack Crawford after that. He didn’t have much nice to say, anyway, and he knew that Jack had been a mentor figure for Clarice in more ways than he ever had for Will. To hear her tell it he had been her last real tie to the bureau, and his death had severed her from the FBI completely. 

 

Once dinner and dessert were over and their guests had said their goodbyes, clean-up began in earnest. Clarice and Lecter picked up plates in tandem and whisked them away to the kitchen. Will had the annoying feeling that he should be helping. 

“Tonight is your last night here.” Clarice returned from the kitchen and took the chair to Will’s left. The sound of water running and dishes clinking together could be heard in the next room. Dr. Lecter also seemed to be humming to himself as he did the washing-up. The world was truly a surreal place. “I didn’t say so earlier because, much as I like Barney and Margot, I don’t like anyone knowing too much about our movements.”

“Then why tell me?”

“I’m sure you would notice when no one showed up to feed you lunch tomorrow.” She reached into the lining of her shift and pulled out a terrifying Spyderco knife. How many weapons did she keep on herself at any given time? Will knew already that her handgun was in a thigh holster as a result of how much attention he’d paid to her thighs. “As it’s our last night, I figured I’d cut you loose. You’ve earned enough trust for that much.”

“I’m not sure you can call it trust when you’re armed to the teeth.”

“Don’t take it too personally; I never leave home without these guys.” _And you’re never home, really, are you?_ , Will added silently. 

“If I fall immediately after, don’t take it as an attack and put a bullet through my skull. My legs have been asleep for _hours_.” 

“Noted. Don’t fuck with me and you’ll leave in one piece tomorrow. You mess around and I’ll show you why I was a three-time interservice combat pistol champion.” 

She sliced through the ropes easily, and he found himself able to move again. The first thing he did with his new-found freedom was rub at his wrists.

“I don’t think these rope burns are ever going away, I hope you know that.”

“Will.” He looked up from his freed wrists, but continued flexing them. One day they’d regain feeling, hopefully. Clarice was very close to him. “It’s been nice, having company. I’m sorry to see you go.”

And she leaned down and kissed him. 

Will couldn’t think to do anything but kiss back. How often had he thought of doing this over the previous three days? 

Clarice Starling tasted as good as he’d imagined. 

Much later than he was proud of, and with some effort, he pulled away. He did, after all, like his organs in their proper places.

“Not that this isn’t,” he gave a short laugh, “to my liking, but won’t Dr. Lecter have some objections?”

“Hmm?” She seemed a bit distracted, eyeing his mouth intently in a way that made him shiver. “Oh, d’you think I was gonna leave him out? He’d be _insufferable_. Unless you don’t...?” 

Will got caught up momentarily in thoughts of all the things he’d wanted to do to Hannibal Lecter over the years, and how those thoughts had changed over that time.

He looked at Clarice Starling, and thought that he would really like to see how Dr. Lecter’s dark head moved over her pale, muscled body. He’d like to figure out all the ways he could fit between them. 

He was lost. He’d known it for years, even if it had taken him until that moment to fully admit it to himself. 

Clarice must have seen his thoughts in his eyes, because she put her hands on the arms of the chair he’d yet to rise from and took possession of his mouth once again.

***

“I can’t stay with you,” Will said, words muffled by the flesh of Clarice’s stomach. Dr. Lecter had already shrugged off his post-coital haze and lay against Clarice’s side, reading a book from his nightstand.

“No, I didn’t think you would. You’ve entirely too much righteous anger to do well with us in the long-term.” Lecter set aside his book and focused his penetrating gaze on Will. “Could you, Will, see yourself making a home of a world you have always considered hell? Could you ever be fully comfortable in my company, long term, when you consider me your personal Lucifer reigning over that hell?”

He was right, of course. For the moment he was content, but he could feel his anger simmering just below the surface. Clarice could maintain balance for only so long, and it was wrong to ask her to take it on as a full-time job. One or all of them would end up dead.

“I can’t stay with you...but I won’t turn you in.”

“If I thought you would, you wouldn’t be in our bed.” Clarice observed. “You would most likely be fertilizing our garden.” 

That frankness of hers really was admirable. 

“You know very well that that’s miles from the truth.” Lecter said, smiling slowly, a predator facing its natural prey and restraining itself because it can, and because it’s really not all that hungry right now, thank you very much. “I wouldn’t dream of hiding a body on this property. It could be traced back to us far too easily.”

“Thank you, darling, I was mostly going for hyperbole.” 

“I am quite certain, however, that we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

“If you’re thinking about using the personals method again, we might as well just save our energy and use e-mail. Or craigslist, that way you’re not helping the Tattler with their ad revenue.” 

“Craigslist will do nicely,” he agreed. “In fact, should you need to reach us, make a post on the Baltimore site under the missed connections section.”

Of course the bastard would choose Baltimore. Hannibal Lecter was never one to resist prodding at a visible wound, and that was something he’d do well to remember. Will stored the information away, uncertain if he would ever bring himself to use it. 

Regardless, they would part ways in the morning. Will spared a thought for his table at the fish market near his home; he would need to do some intense fishing to make up the money he’d lost during his unexpected stay in the Lecter-Starling household. 

It was a surreal thought that he would be selecting a rod for the day and digging through his tackle box in less than two days’ time. 

 

***

 

Will leaned his rod against the porch wall next to his door and set down his tackle box to scratch Freya behind the ear. Late autumn had set in over Lake Seminole, but it was proving to be just as stiflingly hot as the summer had been and Freya had dropped her empty water bowl in front of him as soon as he’d breached the porch. He’d have to at least get some water out to his dogs before he could relax for the night. Sometimes he thought he’d do well to invest in a trough. 

The sound of movement came from inside his little home, and he straightened up abruptly. He pushed his screen door open with great caution to find Clarice Starling on the floor with Watson perched gracelessly on her lap, panting happily. That in itself was no easy feat; Watson was a staffie/shepherd mix and quite large even for that. 

“Don’t be flattered by the attention--he likes everyone.” He remarked, smile breaking over his face like the warmth of a fire after hours of trudging through the snow. 

“He’s not much of a guard dog, is he?” She smiled back at him, looking equally pleased to see him. “I got your message, if that needs to be said. Hannibal won’t be around until tomorrow morning. He had to catch a flight from Budapest.” 

“Yeah? How long you planning on sticking around this neck of the woods?” They’d developed a habit of slipping into their natural southern accents when the two of them spoke, and it drove Hannibal _crazy_. 

Of course, that only made them more deliberate about it.

“Reckon we can stick around for a few days. How’s the fishing this time of year?”


End file.
